


Hitting Bottom

by LondonLioness



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sex, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 12:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18604120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonLioness/pseuds/LondonLioness
Summary: At age 26, Sherlock is living on the streets and deep in the throes of drug addiction. They say you have to hit bottom before you can climb back up:Sherlock let himself be led into the bowels of the squalid drug den. In a pool of shadows, he and the dealer faced each other. Of its own accord, his body decided to tremble. The dealer noticed, too, and chuckled. It was almost a kindly sound, but Sherlock wasn't fooled. There was no kindness here. This was a transaction.William Sherlock Scott Holmes, late of Holmes Manor in Surrey County, England, child of privilege and possessor of almost superhuman intellect, sank to his knees.





	Hitting Bottom

_No. No. No. No. No._

The denial echoed in his head in time with his footsteps, but no sound left his mouth. He tried to shut down his thinking, concentrating his attention solely on the back of the dealer he was following like an obedient puppy. He didn't succeed, of course: every instinct was screaming at him to turn and run, as far and fast as possible, but his need was stronger than instinct. He needed what this man had, so he let himself be led into the bowels of the squalid drug den. There were no doors in the place, such things having been removed for salvage, but some corners were darker and quieter than others. In a pool of shadows, the dealer put his back to the wall and they faced each other. He noted that of its own accord, his body had decided to tremble. The dealer noticed it, too, and chuckled. It was almost a kindly sound, but he wasn't fooled: there was no kindness here. This was a transaction, and in the face of his burning, desperate need, it was the only transaction he could make. 

_No choice._

William Sherlock Scott Holmes, late of Holmes Manor in Surrey County, England, child of privilege and possessor of almost superhuman intellect, sank to his knees. 

*************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

After, the dealer pressed three packets in his hand and cupped his cheek in a horrible parody of tenderness. Illogical though it was, Sherlock could feel trails of slime left by the pads of his fingers. The man moved away, and after a long moment, Sherlock stuffed his prize into his pocket and tottered to his feet, where he stood, swaying dangerously. This was silly: it was only his dignity that was wounded; why was his transport acting up so? He had barely enough time to stagger to one of the rusty drums scattered throughout the place before he was thoroughly sick. 

Feeling marginally better, he wended his way to "his" mattress, where he pulled one of the little baggies out of his pocket and stared at it. Looking was all he could do for now; that strange shaking fit was on him again. Measuring out the precious powder onto a spoon wasn't going to happen any time soon. 

"Hey, Shezza." His next door (next mattress?) neighbor, Jazz. Jazz was a small, bony black man with a wispy beard and permanently rheumy eyes. "Looking kinda rough there, Shezz. Need some help?" He started rooting through Sherlock's stuff. "Where's your needles? I know you're fussy about only using your own." 

"Leave it," He rasped. "Jazz, I -- I--" Well, this was bizarre. Why this compulsion to talk? Jazz wasn't his friend, for all that he was a decent enough sort. But he couldn't stop the words, any more than he could fit them together in a coherent sentence. "I -- the dealer -- no money--" 

"Huh? Oh. _Oh!_ " Jazz settled on his mattress. "So you hustled for a score. No biggie; we all do it." 

Oh. Well. That's all right, then. We all do it. 

Only... 

He wasn't really one of them, was he? 

He wasn't. He just wasn't. Not one of these burned-out, hollow people. He was a graduate chemist. He was a violinist. He was a genius. 

He was a junkie. 

He was a whore. 

Once that thought crystallised, everything else -- stopped. After years of pondering, studying, experimenting, and deducing, he realised he had finally stumbled upon a Truth. _The truth shall set you free._ Who said that -- Shakespeare? Irrelevant. 

The tremors were gone. He dropped the bag and stalked off, ignoring Jazz's shocked, "Shezza?" As he walked, he dug into his pocket for the remaining two baggies and flung them behind him. His peripheral vision could just catch the mad scramble his largesse produced, like piranha in a feeding frenzy. 

Outside, it was raining, as it had been the past two days; a nasty, cold, slashing rain that had made both busking and pickpocketing impossible (hence his current predicament.) But that rain was exactly what he wanted right now. Out in front, there was a huge puddle. It was shimmering with some oily effluvium, but he didn't hesitate to rinse his mouth with it. It was still cleaner than what had been in there before. He scrubbed his face, scouring the cheek the dealer had touched until his fingertips came back pink. 

Back on his feet, he slicked his sodden curls away from his face and started walking. On any other day, his destination would have horrified him, but his pride had been so thoroughly squashed today, it couldn't matter. 

He had quite a long walk ahead of him, and after having gone eight blocks, he realized he'd miscalculated. Being wet didn't bother him, but being both wet and cold was no laughing matter. He was in very real danger of hypothermia. 

It was no good. He had to go five times the distance he'd already covered, and he was already shivering violently. That was actually a good thing, he knew; it was when the shivering stopped that you were in trouble. Rubbing his hands together briskly, he scouted around for shelter. Hunkering down in a doorway wouldn't do; he absolutely had to get out of this wind. 

A car pulled alongside. "Need a ride?" 

He glanced over, deducing the driver effortlessly. Family man, two kids, the boy a couple of years older than the girl. Mid-level executive of some sort. Expensive car, but older model, so doing well, but not as well as previously. He realised the man was waiting for his reply. 

"I can't help with petrol." 

"Don't worry about it. Get in before you drown." 

Still, Sherlock hesitated. In his world, nobody just gave anybody anything. Unless...did he expect a "favour"? Was it that obvious that that's what he had become? 

But he needed the ride, didn't he? Why would it matter if it were once or twice? Trying to cling to a tattered shred of virtue was hardly worth his life. 

With no further ado, he slid into the welcome warmth. Deciding he wasn't in the mood for the "That's an unusual name" conversation, he introduced himself as Will. 

"Tim," the driver replied in turn. "Where are you headed?" 

Sherlock gave him the address. Tim raised his eyebrows. "A little further than I was planning, but that's all right. This stuff's turning to sleet; you'd catch your death." 

The ensuing ride lasted just long enough for Sherlock to thaw out and start feeling mostly human again. "Stop here," he said. "It's no use going any further; they won't let you in the gate." 

"Will they let _you_ in the gate?" Tim asked. 

"I know my brother's passcode." 

"Oh, your brother lives here." Sherlock decided not to respond to the subtext, "and you were in _that_ neighbourhood?" Instead, he braced himself and turned to face his benefactor. 

"Thank you," he said. "You may have literally saved my life, so I guess -- whatever you want." 

"Whatever I want?" 

"For payment." 

"But you said --" Sudden realisation dawned on Tim's face, and he gaped at Sherlock, horrified. "Oh! Omigod, no. No, son. That never crossed my mind. I was just helping out, OK?" 

"OK." Odd. He'd trained himself so cruelty rolled off his back, so why did kindness hurt? 

The short walk from the car to the front door was sufficient to soak him all over again. His brother's personal assistant, a crisp, professional woman named Julie, opened the door only a crack to talk to him. 

"I'm sorry, sir, you can't be here." 

Sherlock dispensed with that argument by shoving his way past her. "I need to see Mycroft." 

"He's not to be -- Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes!" 

The door to the study snicked open and Mycroft emerged. "I'm sorry, sir," the PA cried. "He forced his way in." 

"It's quite all right, Julie," the elder brother replied. "Sherlock." He indicated with an expansive gesture that they should enter the study. Then, taking in the shivering, dripping mess his baby brother was, he changed his mind. "I expect Mummy would be quite cross if I let you die. Let's get you into a hot bath." 

Oh, yes! At age 33, Mycroft was being fast-tracked for a major position in government, and his entire lifestyle was designed to impress. The bathroom was positively opulent, reminiscent of a Roman spa: one expected a peacock to strut by. Sherlock was shortly ensconced in a tub full of fragrant bubbles. His brother's hair-care products cost forty quid a pop, and he made liberal use of them. There was the type of shaving cream one whips into foam in a mug, and how good it felt to be rid of the scruff. 

He'd feel wonderful, if it weren't for the sensation of bugs crawling under his skin and his right foot wanting to dance to a tune the rest of his body couldn't hear. 

No matter. He shrugged on a dressing gown that was three times thicker and softer than it had any reason to be, and went to hunt down the lord of the manor. 

He found him in the study, sipping cognac by a roaring fire. There was a tray holding a mug of steaming hot soup and a stack of -- oh, joy! -- marmite sandwiches. He forced himself to consume the food slowly. It had been three days since any sustenance had passed his lips. It certainly wouldn't do to eat too fast and sick it up on his brother's genuine Persian rug. 

Mycroft broke the silence as soon as Sherlock looked up from his food. "So, little brother. To what do I owe the pleasure?" 

Sherlock said plainly, "I want to stop." 

"I see." There were fathoms of doubt underneath the bland words. It stung. 

"I really mean it this time. I can't do this anymore." No response. "Observe me, Mycroft. Can't you see I'm sincere?" 

"I do see you're sincere. I also see that you've been cold, wet, and hungry." 

"No, it's not that. I'm not just looking for a warm berth. I promise." 

"Hmm." Mycroft set down his snifter with great delicacy. "Sherlock, we have been here before. Three times we have gotten you help, gotten you clean. And three times it was mere weeks before you stuck a needle in your arm again. So explain to me why it is different this time." 

Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He couldn't. He couldn't tell his brother what he'd descended to. The searing shame of it brought tears prickling to his eyes, but he remained mute. 

"As I thought." Mycroft's disappointment was palpable. "Your clothes are being washed and dried. You may sleep here tonight. In the morning, please take your leave promptly." He rose and started to walk past. 

_"Mykie!"_ Sherlock grabbed his wrist. 

Mycroft glared at his hand as though it were an offensive bug and plucked it off. "You," he said icily, "do not get to call me Mykie. My baby brother called me Mykie. The one the addict killed." He swept past without looking back. 

Now the tears did come. He drew up his knees and huddled into himself miserably. After a few minutes, the sobs abated, but the tears did not. His nose was running, too, much too fast to control by sniffling. "What a lovely night for a detox," he muttered as he strode to the side table to retrieve a box of tissues. When he wasn't mopping at his eyes and nose, he kept his hands jammed in his pockets so he wouldn't mindlessly scratch at the parade of imaginary ants marching under the skin of his left arm. 

"Now what do I do?" he asked the fire. Fires, it turns out, are spectacularly ignorant. He slumped off to the guest room to retire for the night. Julie had turned out his pockets before taking his clothes to be laundered, and in the little pile of odds and ends, a much-creased business card caught his eye: D.I. Lestrade. A snippet of their conversation replayed itself in his head: 

_"I'll do anything I can to help you, son. But I can't have a junkie at my crime scenes. Get clean, and I'll be glad to work with you."_

Huh. There was an idea. Work. Actual, worthwhile work, assisting Scotland Yard. Even Mycroft would have to respect that. Unraveling puzzles for a living ... hmm, he could see that; he really could. 

That settled it. When he left here, he would go to a clinic and ask for help with the withdrawal. Then, once he was far enough along to test clean, he would call Lestrade and offer his services as ... well, what would you call that? A consultant? Consulting detective; that had a nice ring. 

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock felt a glimmer of optimism steal into his heart. He had hit bottom today, but he had also glimpsed a path back up. Resolving to hang on to that thread of hope, he turned off the lights. After a long time, he slept. 

-Fin-

**Author's Note:**

> I can't claim any expertise with addiction, but I've seen family members struggle with substance abuse of various kinds. I've got nothing but sympathy for the struggle. I took a clue from the TV series "Intervention" that eventually it gets to the point that family members have to withdraw so the addict does hit bottom and help himself, and it must just shred their hearts to do so. Mycroft comes off as cold, but I believe that in his heart, he's wailing with grief that he has to send his baby brother back out into the maelstrom.
> 
> Anyway, that's enough of my rambling. I appreciate all comments and kudos!
> 
> LL


End file.
